The Story of a Scar
by Addster
Summary: There are scars of war, scars of broken hearts, and scars of when you were a reckless kid. But there comes a time in every person's life when they get a scar...a scar with a story worth telling.


**AN: I'm sick as a dog, but still fly enough to put this out. It's not very long, I kind of trail off in some places (I'm not even sure where:c). But I liked it, got the idea from staring at a scar on my hand for a while. Yes, I was actually studying my hand...**

**Disclaimer: If anyone's stupid enough to believe I own a multi-million dollar hit manga series, then I'll come find you and spread my plague!**

When I see the subtle scars slashing over her knuckles or the discoloration of the bigger ones painting her body, it makes me wonder as to how a woman of her beauty could ever become blemished.

She was (and still is) a fighter. Since the moment I first met her, I knew. She wasn't the kind of woman who took lip, especially from a twelve year-old gennin half her height. But despite the unspoken warning painted on her face, I still opened my mouth, nearly flinching back after she opened hers. She was like a lioness the way she spoke, loud and strong, firm without sympathy. It was awe-inspiring.

And like every powerful lioness, she had bite to back up her bark; I can still feel the sting of her finger on my forehead every time I think back to that day. The way she sauntered through her moves, the small sway in her hips that caught the eye, was that of a practiced huntress. She knew what she wanted and knew exactly how to get it, even if that meant barreling over a child to get it.

But the fleeting look of concern I saw on her face when she healed my hand shook me a bit. While she thought I was sleeping, I was quietly watching her practiced hands hold my burned and broken right with gentle patience. My stomach started feeling hot from her touch, a tingling feeling shot up my arms and legs as she laid my hand down and pulled the hotel blanket up to my chest, like she was going to tuck me in.

That night I couldn't sleep, I kept running my healthy hand over my battered one, trying to re-induce the tingling I felt from her simple touch, only to frustrate myself when it wouldn't happen and getting myself to hope she would touch me again. Just the fleetingly gentle caress of her fingertips on the back of my hand had me smiling.

When I woke the next day, I found her assistant lying on the floor next to my bed.

I shook her awake, gently shaking her shoulders with my hands and she shot up like lightning, a panicked glint teeming at the edges of her eyes. She mumbled a few unintelligible words, then springing up like a coiled snake over towards the window where the perverted hermit lay in a poisoned stupor.

Me being dense as I was came to conclude that these were all separate happenings, none of them connected by the only absentee. It took a hushed conversation between the two older people, who seemed to usher me protectively between them, before I actually found out what was really going on.

It took us no more than five minutes to reach her location, we would've been there faster if the sage hadn't held me back from my sprint, scolding me about staying in formation. It was the strangest thing; I didn't even realize I was dashing through the trees faster than I had ever done before. It was that same tingling sensation, but multiplied until it consumed me entirely like a poison.

When our trio finally reached the clearing covered in fresh craters and piles of pebbles that used to be towering boulders, I knew she wasn't far off, I could even hear the war cries echoing through the nothingness.

In the puff of smoke we arrived in, the gray haired teenager jumped back before he could make contact with her. I stood in front of her, tense and ready to go, not even seeing the snake like man in the background as his animalistic eyes bore into our intrusive party. I could feel her breath falling on my neck, almost taste the flowery perfume coating her chest, not even realizing my breath was shaking with anticipation and fear beyond measure.

Then her hand pulled on the back of my jacket, the three fingers she was using pulling my entire frame closer to hers and away from the danger.

"Why did you bring him?" She hissed towards the pervert and my ears didn't miss the panic in her words.

She was worried…for me.

I stood with a blank expression, the depth of my realization wracking my body down to the marrow. For the first time in my life, having dealt with all the misanthropes and dirty looks shot my way, there was one that shone like a beacon, her words getting tears to sting the corners of my eyes.

And before I knew it, I heard her screaming my name, pleading for me to run, pleading for me to get myself out of harm's way. I had never heard such panic and that alone almost convinced me to get out of the way. But I couldn't move. I had to protect her. I had to keep that tingling alive.

Then it all got fuzzy, and everything hurt. I felt myself falling back, my brain knowing hard earth versus my skull wouldn't turn up satisfactory results, but I just couldn't move for the life of me. I could see it now on the report Jiraiya would give the village: boy at the baby age of twelve dies, screaming for a drunk, compulsive gambler to save him. The last part would have been true if I had the ability to scream, I would have screeched her name until my throat was raw.

Apparently she could read minds.

I fell into her arms, her hands cradling my head and laying it into her lap. My breathing was erratic and my heart beat irregularly to the point I could feel my blood stopping and starting from the unpatterned beats.

I was probably going to die, right there in her arms.

But I couldn't do that to her, I wouldn't do that to her. I felt her hands travel over my chest, the sensation her fingers left prickled my skin, lingering long after she had left the area. This in itself was life saving.

I tried breathing for her; I forcibly pushed ragged breaths in and out of my chest, pain crippling my lungs as I felt the blood rise like bile.

This got her to panic and I could feel her shift my weight to the ground and then push her healing hands over the dying area.

All of me senses were fading, darkness was taking over and I could feel Death's hands around my throat. And the strangest feeling overtook my exposed stomach, like water dripping from somewhere above and diluting the inky black waters that were drowning me.

"Naruto…" I heard her sob my name over and over, felt her hands push their life breathing chakra deeper into my body. It was a kind of warmth that buried deep into my skin and deeper into my bones, rippling all throughout my body. My heart started beating normally, the blood in my mouth started clearing up, and I could open my eyes again.

I found her face immediately, the beautiful sight bringing a comfort I had never once experienced before. She looked like a mother seeing her newborn child for the first time with tears streaming down her exhausted face and an indescribable smile stretching from ear to ear.

If I could have, I would have smiled that big too.

But along with her theoretical motherhood, came the fierce maternal instinct to protect the child until her last breath.

I felt the hot blood splatter on my chest when the raven-haired monster impaled her at full force. I felt her breath fall on my cheek when she protected me from a debilitating slash with her own body. I remember her carrying me back to the hotel, her chin nestled in my hair and an always tender hand on the back of my neck. I'm not exactly sure how I remember all of this, but they say every good man has an equally good woman.

Every now and then, I catch the little quirks she does around me, the little things that you would see any normal woman doing to their child. She'll yell when she catches me at Ichiraku, downing my eighth bowl. Or when I'm training out in the rain, she'll chide me with an '_I told you so' _kind of look as she takes my temperature and shoves pills down my throat. These little random events all remind me of her scars, like the big white one starting at her collarbone and ending only God knows where. I can see it sometimes after she's had a long day, she'll slide her hand under her shirt and rub that shoulder, the sleeve drooping a bit and revealing the barely noticeable white blemish.

And now I know how a woman of her immense beauty can become dented and discolored. When she opens her heart to someone who needs it and gives her all to make sure they're kept safe.

That's when you know you're loved.

**Did it make any sense? I tried... thanks for reading, would really appreciate reviews! They'd make me feel better!**

**PEACE :P**


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